


vainer ties dissever

by OldBeginningNewEnding



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Dark, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), Crowley thinks this is how demons love, Dark Crowley (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Duke of Hell Crowley (Good Omens), Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Rape/Non-con Elements, Two Endings, Well he's more of a Lord really, When in fact this is not love at all, i may turn this into a fully-fledged fic one day, one day but not today, this started out as an AU but grew details and minimal dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25917319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldBeginningNewEnding/pseuds/OldBeginningNewEnding
Summary: Crowley has spent millennia deceiving Aziraphale of his position in Hell and masking his true nature. He knows there ought to be a thorough discussion of this one day, but it was far easier to simply enjoy the angel's company and postpone the ensuing argument as much as possible.But the truth unfolds (well, not so much as unfolds, but is rather ripped right out from under him) as his men throw Aziraphale to the floor before his throne. Aziraphale, who thought of Crowley as his friend and companion.And heisdon't get Crowley wrong—although "friend" is a very mild term for what Crowley feels. Because Crowley, on the other hand, has been devising plan after plan for millennia on how to get Aziraphale to either Fall (to break down the angel's internalized fear of being on opposite sides) or some way to tie his very existence to his own.((It’s love, maybe. Or the closest thing a demon can come to it.))
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 113





	vainer ties dissever

**Author's Note:**

> an AU that was conceptualized because the ability to control time is ridiculously overpowered and I wanted to explore a darker Crowley who isn't afraid of using his intelligence and imagination to rise in ranks and get what he wants.
> 
> mind the warnings.

In another time, another life, Crowley might have quipped something about mice and men and _best laid plans._

Because Crowley has spent millennia deceiving Aziraphale of his position in Hell and masking his true nature. He knows there _ought_ to be a thorough discussion of this one day, but it was far easier to simply enjoy the angel's company and postpone the ensuing argument as much as possible

But the truth unfolds (well, not so much as unfolds, but is rather ripped right out from under him) as his men throw Aziraphale to the floor before his throne. Aziraphale, who thought of Crowley as his friend and companion.

And he _is_ don't get Crowley wrong—although "friend" is a very mild term for what Crowley feels. Because Crowley, on the other hand, has been devising plan after plan for millennia on how to get Aziraphale to either Fall (to break down the angel's internalized fear of being on opposite sides) or some way to tie his very existence to his own.

((It’s love, maybe. Or the closest thing a demon can come to it.))

But these plans never come to fruition as Crowley's men present him the "scheming principality" that had kept their Lord on Earth and had been giving him all sorts of trouble for millennia.

Aziraphale, forced to kneel before him, looks understandably heartbroken and horrified.

And Crowley is now placed in a very precarious position:

His men are awaiting an order-- mostly because any prisoner they capture are generously “given” to them to do with as they please.

But this time, they're surprised. This time, their Lord Crowley wants this angel to himself.

* * *

Sadly, _desperately_ , Aziraphale is waiting for some kind of explanation. Something that will tell him that this was all a misunderstanding, that Crowley will let him go and get him out of this mess, just like every other time in their song and dance through history. But this time— Crowley isn't in the position to give him one.

Crowley knows what Hell's elite are like. If he shows any modicum of weakness (and my oh, is _Aziraphale_ , his sweet angel, ever a weakness), they'd use it to hold any advantage over him. He can afford to give Aziraphale little luxuries with the guise of keeping his captive complacent, but _freeing_ him?

That was out of the question.

And yet a part of Crowley, the darker, _hungry_ side of him revels knowing that Aziraphale is his; the part of him that waited 6,000 years to have him. Ideally, he would have his angel by his side, their _own_ side-- but that's not how things turned out.

No, instead Aziraphale is here, under him.

((and that stokes the flames of want far more than it should.))

* * *

When he takes Aziraphale the first time, he's gentle— for a demon, anyways. He uses as much Temptation as he can to make it good for his fretful angel while still keeping him self-aware, cooing lusty praises as he sinks into him, slowly, _slowly_ , kisses the tear-streaked face in what could have been worship if he could remember how, _marking_ him and daring his men and _any_ demon to even _look_ at him with how thoroughly he’s claimed Aziraphale.

But Crowley can't say that he was completely generous.

((he'd been waiting 6,000 years after all.))

* * *

Aziraphale's heart fractures and the sickness he feels sinks down to his soul. The being he'd (quietly, forlornly, _regretfully_ ) fallen in love with had been nothing but a delusion brought about by his own ignorance and naivete. He sees this as Crowley takes pleasure from abusing his soft, bruised heart and body-- a mockery of the love Aziraphale held for him.

And as he lays there, in Crowley's bed, the remnants of this betrayal staining his skin and the sheets between them, he formulates a plan.

He vows to escape.

.

Aziraphale spends his days learning the layout of Crowley's...well. Castle would be a bit too grand. It feels more like a fortress. Any time afforded to him, he uses to map out possible escape routes, memorizing which corridors are heavily surveillanced and when shift changes between guards occur.

He squirrels away anything and everything he can use for his escape. His miracles are useless in Hell's oppressive darkness, but they can't take away his resourcefulness. He remains quiet, seething, almost submissive— taking the brunt of the humiliation while dreaming of escape, flying away and leaving everything— the suffering, betrayal, _Crowley_ – behind.

He gets twenty meters out the fortress walls before an alarm sounds. Ten seconds later, he's caught.

* * *

He's thrown to the floor at Crowley's feet as the demon sits at his throne. Aziraphale feels dozens, maybe even hundreds of eyes on him as Crowley orders him to his knees.

He's fucked brutally. _Punishment_ Crowley growls in his ear, administering another slap to his bruised bottom as the crowd behind them jeers. _And a reminder of just who you belong to._

And when Crowley empties into him, there's an uproar form the crowd, shame swallowing Aziraphale whole as the demons riot to have a turn, a chance at ruining this _pathetic_ , holy creature who'd just cum spectacularly from being used like a whore.

He half expected Crowley to go through with it, as heavy steps come up behind him.

Instead, a head rolls to the floor and the excited cries die out immediately.

The servants are ordered to clean up the mess and Aziraphale finds himself being carried out of the throne room as the rest of the staff mop up the blood and other fluids, carrying out a decapitated body out the hall.

_He was the one who found me_ Aziraphale blearily thinks.

One of Crowley's most trusted guards. One of the elite of his men.

And his life was ended so drastically, so _suddenly_ — barely a thought given.

Nothing seems to matter to Crowley. Not loyalty— _nothing_.

Sinking despair and suffocating anxiety drowns everything in his system. Aziraphale has to find a way out. Has to find a way out before Crowley grows bored and angry at his disobedience and decides to dispose of him too.

* * *

Crowley knows he fucked up. His men will remember that. _Aziraphale_ will remember that. Word will spread of his actions and he'll be under fire and questioning. He could say that he had to make a statement: that the angel was off limits and that no one should question him. That his men shouldn't be so greedy as to expect a reward for obeying his orders.

It may allay some...but he has to be careful. He can't afford any niceties towards Aziraphale anymore. If Aziraphale was going to try and escape his domain— where Crowley showered him with the finest foods, books, and Crowley's own bed and company—then he was going to be _treated_ as a prisoner.

( _Just for a little while_ , Crowley thinks. _Just for a little while until suspicion blows over._ He doesn't want this for Aziraphale, but Aziraphale forced his hand. He can't lose him.

He absolutely refuses to.)

* * *

Aziraphale makes it to the escalators by his second attempt.

So close to salvation—so close to freedom.

Crowley feels his own ashen heart blacken with fury as Aziraphale flails and thrashes against the hordes of demons carrying him off from his only escape. He opens his wings, beating them fruitlessly against his assailants as pure white feathers scatter.

Amidst the seething anger and sickening betrayal, the sight of it gives Crowley a terrible, terrible idea.

* * *

When Aziraphale comes-to, it is to a room that he's never seen before. A jail, deep within the fortress. _For prisoners_ , Crowley explains as he sharpens a blade. A sword. A mockery of what he surrendered.

Ice-cold fear grips Aziraphale's heart.

The blade is alight with hellfire and Crowley watches with emotionless eyes as Aziraphale's own widen in panic, in _horror._

_Oh, angel_ , Crowley thinks as he steps behind Aziraphale and marveled at his lovely, lovely wings. He extinguishes the flames, leaving the blade gleaming red.

_I_ _can't have you flying away, now can I?_

_._

Aziraphale cries out in pain and darkness overtakes him.

When he awakens, it's to a servant callously changing the dressings on his back.

He lies there, atop a bed of rags set upon the filthy stone floor. A single, bloodied feather lays there amongst the grime.

* * *

When Crowley emerges with a pair of bloodied angel wings in his possession, it's with practiced confidence that he tells his men to send it as a message to Upstairs—for the off chance that they may still be looking for the principality that went missing months prior.

It will tell them of an angel's unfortunate fate, but Crowley isn't too concerned about how Heaven will take it. Aziraphale wasn't the most liked angel at the best of times. Brethren, but certainly not worth the tentative ceasefire between their sides. No, all they needed to know was that there's no angel left to be found.

Crowley came _this_ close to losing Aziraphale for good. He knew Aziraphale wasn't just going to scarper to Earth and hide away in his bookshop— no, he was going back to _them_ , to a place where Crowley can't reach him.

He can't have that. He absolutely _cannot_ lose Aziraphale—

Even if it means destroying everything between them.

* * *

What Crowley fails to take into account is that this destroys Aziraphale too.

He'd _mutilated_ him and the message of fear Crowley attempts to relay teaches the angel nothing but the fact that Aziraphale is utterly powerless here.

That Aziraphale is going to _die_ here.

That he was going to die by Crowley's hands.

The scars cauterized with hellfire and the eternal _burning_ he feels serve as a constant reminder of this. He wonders if this was what demons feel after their fall.

He wonders if falling would make it all stop.

He wonders if death would make it all stop.

* * *

It isn't long before Crowley realizes he's made a terrible mistake.

Aziraphale, at his arrival, looked upon him with contempt and barely-masked betrayal. At the advent of is first attempted escape, he grew avoidant, distant with fear.

Now Aziraphale looked back at him with...nothing. Not fear, not hatred—

Nothing at all.

He was obedient, to an extent. Quiet. The sharp quips thrown between them like knives petering out to silence. He ate nothing unless Crowley commanded it. Even taking him to the library did nothing to gauge a reaction.

He'd do nothing but wait silently for Crowley to instruct another command and Crowley found (to his horror) that Aziraphale obeyed without question, without hesitation.

Gone was the spark that drew him like a moth to a flame: the ridiculous fretting, the coy overindulgences, the utterly _pure_ drive to protect and aid others, and the ever-infuriatingly lovely part of him that was just an utter bastard—

Gone.

All gone.

It's driving Crowley to desperation. He tries anything— _everything_ to gauge a reaction.

But Aziraphale continues to look up at him with the same empty stare. The same blank expression.

In Crowley's most desperate moment, he brings the blade out again, wanting to see anything, absolutely _anything,_ flicker to life behind the emptiness.

But all Aziraphale does is bow his head, the briefest flash of acceptance in his eyes as he awaits his fate.

The sword clatters to the ground as Crowley pulls him close.

Aziraphale looks to the discarded sword and finds it hard to not be disappointed.

* * *

Crowley stops giving him orders. He offers him choices instead.

_Would you prefer to have breakfast by the gardens or in the hall?_

_Tea in the parlor or by the sitting room?_

_A stroll through the greenhouse first or an afternoon of reading in the library?_

It’s painstaking. In the beginning, Aziraphale deferred every choice to Crowley, but the demon did his best to be patient with him. He would remain so until Aziraphale told him what he wanted.

It’s slow. A part of Crowley knows that he'd forever lost what friendship and affections Aziraphale held for him forever.

He believed he could survive on the knowledge that had Aziraphale in his grasp—that the angel was shackled to him for all eternity—

But Crowley had only fooled himself.

.

It isn’t until later— much, _much_ later— that Crowley finds Aziraphale atop the fortress walls one day, eyes distant, pensive.

In another time, another life, Crowley might have slithered up there, making a quip about _lead balloons_. But Crowley only settles beside him, looking off and trying to imagine another sky. Another beginning. 

_"Why am I here?"_ Aziraphale asks, voice soft from disuse.

_Another end_.

It’s a question that Crowley himself doesn’t anticipate.

_B_ _ecause I love you_ , was something he could never say. Not to Aziraphale. Not after what he’s done. Crowley doesn’t deserve to say it.

_"Because I want you here."_

Aziraphale doesn’t seem satisfied by that. But it’s a start. All things start with questions.

But Crowley himself doesn’t know how it all ends.

* * *

There's underhanded demon politics afoot concerning Crowley's status. He's powerful—his ability to control time made him a threat to several demons of similar and even higher rankings. He controls a great number of demons that have sworn allegiance to him.

The tension has been building for millennia.

Crowley's men captured and mutilated an angel. Hereditary enemies or not, there's been a cautious truce over the eons with both sides agreeing to settle things at Armageddon—

Yet here Crowley is: holding an angel _prisoner_ and brazenly sending the angels proof of his crimes.

They’re lucky that the incident itself is not enough to incite immediate war.

_((They need to bide more time. They need the Antichrist to fulfill its destiny))_

But what these events _do_ is present an opportunity.

An opportunity to rid Hell of Crowley.

The majority of his men are easy to dissuade. Since the elite guard's untimely demise at Crowley's hands, his legion has only become more and more wary at their Lord's deteriorating sanity and unhealthy obsession with the captive angel.

The difficult part is attempting to persuade the angels to play along.

* * *

The angels are of course, outraged to find one of their own was murdered at the hands of a demon. But the cost of one principality against a Demon Lord such as Crowley is not enough to go veering off the instructions of The Great Plan, so the archangels decree. They could bide their time and avenge their brother when the time was right. There was no need to act so brashly.

At least, until a deal is made.

* * *

When the angels storm through the fortress, those that remain loyal to Crowley are slain on the spot. This was especially true of those that refused to surrender Crowley's whereabouts.

And when the angels charge through the library and find Aziraphale—alive and living far lavishly than any prisoner has any right to—

_Well._ The implications echo in all their collective thoughts.

_"Aziraphale..."_ Gabriel starts calmly, tentatively, an unspoken question, interrogation, behind: _"Where is Crowley?"_

Aziraphale opens his mouth and Gabriel almost sighs in relief.

Almost.

_In the greenhouse_ , he wants to say.

But Gabriel's question is instead met with hesitation. With silence. Aziraphale closes his mouth. 

And that was enough for the angels to attack.

_Traitor,_ they cry out and deep down, Aziraphale agrees with them.

* * *

Amidst the conflict and the chaos that ensues, a sword of holy fire pierces Aziraphale where he stands.

Color and sound fall like snow around him as a surge of familiar, unholy power pulses through the air and time creeps to a halt. His thoughts race and meld together as his vision grows dark and even Crowley's anguished screams fade to the void.

He feels it then, as familiar arms wrap around him— something so _undeniable_ , so lucid that even Aziraphale has to gasp in wonder as his mind echoes one last thought:

_Oh._

_It’s love._

* * *

When Aziraphale comes-to, it's to a bloody nightmare.

The pain is insurmountable. It's a (little demonic) miracle that he's conscious. The ever-present burning where his wings used to reside is grounding in comparison to excruciating sharpness goring a hole right into his chest.

_"Shh...angel_ , _it's all right. I've got you."_

When Aziraphale opens his eyes, it's to a bloody carnage.

_"Don't look. You're safe now."_

Somehow, being assured by the being at the root of the massacre before him isn’t quite as comforting as Crowley makes it out to be.

(And somehow, not as terrifying as it should be.)

But Crowley holds him all the while as the library burns, as an entire holy army scatters in ashes, as an entire legion of demons litter the fortress in pieces and puddles.

Crowley is more than aware that there will be a farce of a trial awaiting for him—for the deaths of his men at his own hands, for almost instigating war for defending his territory after he "incited" the attack—

All to keep the _sham_ of an armistice Heaven and Hell promised one another until Armageddon.

((Nevermind that he knows _damn_ well this coup was orchestrated to either kill him or give them a reason to kill him.))

He could run, he thinks. Take Aziraphale with him because that's all he ever really wanted anyways. There must be some place for them where Heaven or Hell can't bother to look.

_There’s a great, big universe out there._

But Crowley knows this likely won't be the case. Not with Aziraphale as weak and in pain as he is. Not with how much of a threat Crowley poses to Hell and their elites.

So instead, he savors this moment, running a hand through the curls on Aziraphale's head.

" _They'll come for me tomorrow."_ Aziraphale makes a startled noise and Crowley holds him closer. _"Gotta set up the trial and all. It’ll be quite the spectacle, I'm sure."_

Aziraphale looks up at him, a heartbreakingly honest look of concern on his face. Crowley's heart thuds pathetically with adoration.

.

_“For the record, I’m sorry you know.”_

There's a lot Crowley ought to be sorry for. _"For which part?"_

The walls around them crumble apart. Crowley doesn't know if it's the desperation of too little time left or because Crowley has nothing left to lose.

_"For loving you."_ His shaking fingers brush against Aziraphale's pale cheek. _"For loving you like a demon."_

Aziraphale's quiet. A beat of silence stretches for a second, for a small eternity, echoing between them before:

_"Well...maybe that's because no one's taught you how to love any other way."_

Carefully, Aziraphale brings his lips to Crowley's, softly, tenderly, and something bright and warm that fills and fills Crowley's heart until it's drowning, suffocating.

.

They make love on the night before Crowley's trial.

_How cruel,_ he thinks, that his angel would give him the very thing he's wanted from the start right before everything is ripped away.

But he can't blame him. Not when Crowley is desperate for his love, not when Crowley knows that he can no longer survive without it.

((It's a good thing, in some twisted way, that he won't have to for much longer.))

* * *

On the morning of Crowley's trial, Aziraphale is tangled in Crowley’s limbs, and he reaches up to kiss him.

_"I have a plan,"_ he says.

* * *

Aziraphale proposes the switch. Crowley's first instinct is to shoot it down immediately. If all went awry, then—

" _You'd lose me either way, Crowley."_ Aziraphale lays his hand on Crowley's and Crowley almost curses him for deliberately targeting his newfound desperation. _"This is our only chance: you have to trust me."_

With reluctance, with fear, Crowley agrees.

The plan goes off without a hitch. The whole of Hell is shaken as they stand in awe before a Demon Lord immune to holy water.

Aziraphale negotiates with them: banishment as a thinly veiled amnesty towards a being they had no hope of controlling. He is to remain out of Hell and out of association with Hell or the rest of his days.

.

.

.

* * *

**Ending 1** :

“For eternity.”

((Apologies, Aziraphale.))

* * *

Aziraphale returns to Crowley, shaken, but successful. Crowley envelops him in a bruising embrace as they switch back. They take the escalator up and for the first time in months, Aziraphale revels in the feeling of Earth's sunlight.

It is rudely interrupted by Crowley kissing him fervently. _"Brilliant— bloody, brilliant bastard."_ Crowley murmurs, punctuating each word with a kiss. And for Crowley— this was the best possible outcome:

He's out of Hell for good: he can stay on Earth and be with the one being he loves— _loves—_ more than anything— and most of all...

...this wouldn't be possible without Aziraphale. Crowley is dizzy with happiness—so much so that he almost misses Aziraphale's preposterous request:

_"Crowley....Crowley, please. I've given you your freedom. I ask that you give me mine."_

But Crowley's still smiling, even as Aziraphale steps away from him, trying to gather distance as Crowley takes two steps forward for every step he takes back. _"Please,"_ he begs, so heartbreakingly honest—

Much more honest than he was during their last night together.

_"Please, let me go. Leave me be—"_

Crowley supposes that he should feel sorry. Supposes that he should feel guilty. After all, it's his fault that Aziraphale's been mutilated, disfigured, and crippled. An angel who can't fly— Where could go? Aziraphale is an enemy to Heaven now— and without Crowley there to protect him, who knows what Hell would do to the angel that no doubt "gave" Crowley the secrets to make him immune to holy water?

No...for Aziraphale's sake...Crowley needs to protect him. And he'd gladly do so for all eternity.

_"Please...please, Crowley,_ **_let go!_ ** _"_

Even if Aziraphale spends all of eternity hating him.

As long as he does so by Crowley's side.

That’s enough.

* * *

**Ending 2** :

The Witch's House

((Justice / Oath))

* * *

Aziraphale never does return to Crowley. No, Aziraphale takes the escalator up, wearing Crowley's form, the form of a powerful Demon Lord, impossibly immune to holy water. His heart thuds as his skin (not his skin, not really) touches the sunlight.

He wants to cry at the feel of it. But no, not now. He doesn't have time for tears. Hell won't hold Crowley forever. No, Aziraphale needs to plan and needs to disappear.

But for now—for this small eternity—he can gasp out a laugh. The taste of freedom races through his veins, too fast, far too fast, for the guilt to catch up to him.

_There's a great, big universe out there,_ after all _._

_._

Crowley stands by the ruins of his fortress, the eternal burning from where he'd torn Aziraphale's wings serving as a reminder. He would have laughed if his chest weren't searing with pain.

((He isn't sure if it's from heartbreak or from where a holy weapon tore through Aziraphale's flesh and bones.))

Because Aziraphale's _gone_. Gone and left him in a disfigured, _crippled_ body incapable of flight, his form weary and weakened from the oppressive darkness of Hell.

And Crowley knows that the demons— the those that sought to destroy him— would now hunt him down. Hunt down the angel that gave the Demon Lord Crowley the ability to withstand holy water.

They will inevitably catch him. Crowley knows this. They'll imprison him, experiment, poke and prod, douse him in hellfire to see if he survives, torture him for answers, for sport. It won't matter.

Hell won't hold him forever.

Crowley isn't powerless, even in this form. What he needs now is to make haste. He needs to find the exit. Most of all, he needs to find Aziraphale.

And he _will_ find Aziraphale. And when he does,

_There will be no escape._

**Author's Note:**

> i'm over on tumblr @new-endings if you wanna yell at me~ 
> 
> title is a line from Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning
> 
> next fic to be updated should be "deeper than all roses" but i got distracted


End file.
